


Searching For Home

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gapfillerpalooza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-21
Updated: 2005-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian had told him, then, in the jeep.  “Only until you’re better.”  But he’d been so busy crowing about getting his own way that he didn’t really hear.  Not a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Searching For Home

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 206  
> Written for LJ Gapfillerpalooza

Justin is halfway down the block, his backpack swinging from his fingers and slamming against his leg in matching time to his angry steps, before he realizes that he left the loft clad only in his pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt.

He stops at the corner and leans against the lamppost. Rubs his hand against his face. And realizes that he was stupid to hope, stupid to dream. Brian already _told_ him, didn’t he? On the trip to the loft that feels like it was years ago, after his mom had told him that he was moving and he’d spent an hour dancing around his room, tossing his shit into the brown leather suitcase that his mom had laid out on his bed. He’d been so fucking happy. Delirious. And Brian had told him, then, in the jeep. “Only until you’re better.” But he’d been so busy crowing about getting his own way that he didn’t really hear. Not a word.

He was a fool to think differently.

Justin shivers, rubbing his hands along his bare arms. He was a fool, and he was freezing. He digs into his backpack, grateful to find a hoodie squished beneath the textbooks and papers he’d thrown inside. Pulling it on, he glances back down the street toward his... no, not his, _Brian’s_... home. Tries to squash the tiny part of him that wishes Brian was coming after him, that can almost see Brian’s long legs eating up the street as he strides purposefully toward the distant streetlight. Justin shakes his head and pushes away from the streetlight. Pushes away from the loft and the life he thought he was making. Pushes it all away.

* * *

It starts raining a few blocks from the loft. At first it’s only a trickle, a light shower, but a quick look at the darkening sky and Justin spends precious minutes digging through his backpack yet again, finding only a few condoms and a ratty ticket stub from the last time he and Daph went to the movies. He considers trying to board the bus using the currency of a smile and a shake of his ass, but quickly decides against it. Every bus driver he’s ever seen had to be straight, anyway.

By the time he reaches Debbie’s house, the trickle has become a downpour and he is soaked through to his skin. He stands outside for a long moment, face upturned to the torrent. Closes his eyes and welcomes the sting of the drops on his skin.

He doesn’t even hear what Debbie says when she opens the door. He sees the pale pattern on her threadbare robe. Feels the warmth of the hallway light on his skin. Smells the remnants of pot roast dinner. He imagines -- wishes -- dreams -- that it all felt like home.

“You haven’t rented out my old room yet, have you?” Justin says.

He braces himself for the deluge of concern. But Debbie is always full of surprises. Her voice is soft as she invites him in. Justin thinks his love for her grows exponentially at that moment.

Justin remembers that Debbie is never quiet for long as soon as he’s inside the door.

“Don’t say a word,” she admonishes, a crimson nail wagging inches from his nose. “I want you to go upstairs and get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death! Don’t worry, I’ll throw them in the dryer and they‘ll be good as new by the time you get out of the shower."

“No, Sunshine!” she brays out as he starts up the stairs, stairs he’d trudged up hundreds of times when he lived here, when he spent nights in Michael’s old bed, watching Captain Astro curtains flutter in the breeze, dreaming up far-fetched schemes to land Brian Kinney once and for all. “Leave your shoes here. I’ll put them on the vent to dry out. Are you wearing pyjamas?” Deb’s voice raises an octave, and Justin opens his mouth to answer, but she puts a cool palm on his cheek and his mouth closes, and his eyes close, and he just... wants to sleep. Wants this all to be over.

“Go have that shower, sweetie,” Deb says. “We’ll talk when you’re warm and dry.”

* * *

Justin stands under the spray until the hot water starts to turn cold, and deliberately does not think of anything at all. He uses Vic’s Listerine to rinse his mouth, and curses himself for walking out without a toothbrush. He finds a pair of jeans hanging on the bathroom doorknob, courtesy some clothing drive or another, he’s sure. He doesn’t feel badly about borrowing them for the night, and they’re only a little snug. On the bed in Michael’s room, Deb has placed his shirt, still warm from the dryer and smelling of Bounce. He inhales the fresh scent and thinks that Bounce sheets will always remind him of Debbie Novotny.

When he gets to the kitchen, Debbie has set out a plate of his favourite cookies. Justin thinks that maybe he should be considered too old to have favourite cookies, but that doesn’t stop him from drooling when he sees them. She’s made hot chocolate, and though marshmallows bob in her mug, there are none in his. Because he’s allergic. Because Deb remembers.

Justin doesn’t plan to tell Debbie what happened, but the marshmallow-less mug undoes him. He spills the whole story. “I don’t know what to do,” he finishes, and strains to keep his voice from cracking and his face from crumpling. Strains to be strong.

Debbie leans back in her chair. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Sunshine,” she says. “You’re going to go to Babylon, and you’re going to find the cutest boy there, and you’re going to dance and drink and forget all about Brian fucking Kinney for one goddamned night!”

“I am?”

“Damned right you are! As for everything else, we’ll sort it all out tomorrow.”

* * *

By the time Justin is shrugging into one of Michael’s old jackets, he figures that Debbie is right. Things always look better in the morning. Well… usually. And he is a fighter. Always has been. Always will be. His happiness does not depend on Brian Kinney.

Justin slides his feet into his dry sneakers and almost bumps into Debbie as she pulls on her jacket. He raises an eyebrow in surprise. She’d looked ready for bed ten minutes ago.

“Are you working tonight, Deb?” he asks. “I can walk you to the diner.”

Debbie pats a hand quickly against his cheek. “Not tonight, Sunshine. I’ve got an errand to run.”


End file.
